Playing for the Devil's Fire

by Phillippe Diederich

  “I’m going to have to take care of the bakery,” she said.

  “What about me?”

  “You’ll have to help after school.”

  We were sitting in the living room. Behind Gaby, I could see my parents’ wedding photograph on the wall, the image of my mother staring at me, smiling.

  “Every day?” I asked.

  “What do you think?”

  I leaned my head back on the couch and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to keep seeing that picture of my mother. I kept hearing her soft voice telling me everything was going to be fine, that life was a long road and all we had to do was learn to avoid the potholes. But when I opened my eyes and saw her picture, her eyes, her smile, it made me angry. I wanted her here, in the flesh.

  We had spoken with the Federal Police headquarters in Toluca and checked the hospitals. We had made I don’t know how many declarations, but no one had any record of them, not by name or description, dead or alive. It was as if the earth had swallowed them up, car and all. If this was a dream, I told myself, I will open my eyes and everything will be back to the way it was.

  It wasn’t.

  “Are you listening to me, Liberio? This is important.”

  “Gaby,” I said. The ugly truth crawled like a rat up my throat. “I’m scared.”

  She tilted her head to the side. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes turned narrow. She put her arms around me and held me like she never had, the way my mother always did. Her perfume smelled just like hers, her hair against the side of my face, her earring pressing painfully against my cheek.

  I took a deep breath and held it. Mamá, Mamá, I thought over and over as if I might have some magical power. But nothing happened. I was in the same place with the same horrible truth. Why was this happening to us?

  “Señorita Gaby,” Jesusa’s voice interrupted our sobs. She stood by the archway that separated the dining room from the living room, a big plastic bag in her hand. “Viviana from across the street dropped off this bag of tamales. She said if we need anything to please knock on her door.”

  They had all been doing that. All our friends and neighbors had been stopping by the house, bringing food, giving us advice, telling us everything was going to work out. They offered untangible help, as if their words could change things, bring back my parents. But we were lost. Helpless.

  Gaby nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. And for a moment there was this strange heavy silence that seemed to press all the emptiness forward.

  “What should I do with them?” Jesusa asked.

  “I don’t know.” Gaby’s face twisted with terror. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Jesusa set the bag down and placed her hands on Gaby’s shoulder. “We’re going to be fine, señorita,” she whispered. “You’ll see.”

  But we weren’t fine. Too many days had passed. Something bad had happened, and no one could deny it, not Jesusa, not Father Gregorio or even Pineda. The not-knowing twisted my insides. If they’d had an accident, I wanted to know. If they were dead, I wanted to give them a mass and bury them in the cemetery next to my grandfather. I wanted to know that they were there. Not knowing just fed that helpless feeling like I was falling into a dark empty hole.

  I worked at the panadería every day after school. On Saturday afternoon after closing, I fetched my shoeshine box and met Mosca at the Minitienda and we went to the plaza. It was just starting to get dark. Peasants from the nearby pueblos sat on the iron benches and leaned against the cement planters watching the parade of young people. Everyone was decked out in their best clothes—pressed shirts, cowboy hats—walking around the plaza. The girls moved in small groups, their arms laced together, giggling, the boys marched quickly, their eyes darting around like they were trying to find something.

  A boy carrying a long pole with packages of pink cotton candy circled the children playing in the gazebo. The man selling nieve from a pushcart rang his bell. The whole plaza smelled of grilled corn and perfume.

  I checked the corners and the area around the benches where most of the shoeshine boys worked. There were only two. The night had promise.

  “Why don’t you take the plaza?” Mosca said. He knew the best places to shine shoes. “I’ll take the side streets and the restaurants. Then we’ll hit the cantinas.”

  “For real?” We both knew there was more money to be made in the plaza.

  “Sure. You need to catch up. I don’t want to go to the wrestling alone.”

  Mosca took off toward Los Pinos restaurant. I slung my box over my shoulder and walked around the plaza, my eyes down, scanning the ground looking for shoes to shine. It’s not about dirty shoes because you’ll never find dirty shoes on a Friday or Saturday night. It takes an eye, and it takes experience. You just have to be on the lookout for the expensive shoes. You have to read people, find the person who’s begging for a shine but doesn’t know it yet. Sometimes a guy who’s making the moves on a girl will get his shoes shined just to show off. Insecure guys who walk too fast will get their shoes shined because they want to look like they’re doing something, like they have some place to go. It’s all about personality. When you recognize one, you have to move in with confidence—but not too aggressive. Sometimes you just make eye contact and nod at the shoes. Sometimes you ask if they want a shine. Sometimes, with the right person, you can just set your box down and, almost automatically, they’ll set a boot on your box. No words.

  As the evening turned to night, families and old people and most of the peasants trickled away and were replaced by a crowd of young men and women. Lovers embraced on benches. A few conjuntos strolled along, looking for customers. Accordions and guitars filled the gaps of conversations and laughter. Later, after the cantinas closed, it would be men alone or in pairs, drunk, swaying, singing their pain into the night.

  I stopped by a group of teenagers hanging around one of the planters. They were passing around a bottle of Anis Mico and getting cocky. I moved on. When I came around the corner across the street from the municipal building, I saw Ximena and Regina with a group of men. Everything about them screamed money: hats, sharp clothes, gold chains and bracelets, boots made of fine skins—shark, snake, caiman. And real Nikes.

  I was too close to turn away. I lowered my head and walked quickly, but when I looked up Regina locked eyes with me. “Boli.” She stepped away from the group. “Where you off to?”

  “You know, working.”

  “No news of your parents?” she asked quietly.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m really sorry. But I’m sure they’ll turn up soon, no?”

  “Sure. I hope so.”

  “Is Gaby okay? I’ve tried calling her like a million times.”

  “She’s busy with the panadería.”

  “Caray, I don’t even know what to say. I can’t imagine—”

  I forced a smile. “It’s okay.”

  “¡Ey!” It was the same man who’d been sitting behind Pineda’s desk. Joaquín. “Bring the boy over.”

  I wanted to walk away, but I also wanted to stay. I wanted to be close to Ximena. I wanted to know what she saw in this guy—the big gray truck? The polo shirt with NEW YORK in big letters? The tiny gold AK-47 hanging from a chain around his neck?

  “He’s working,” Regina said.

  “Can he talk?” Joaquín asked.

  “I can talk,” I said.

  Ximena leaned against Joaquín, her cheek resting on his shoulder. My heart did a dance.

  “I know you.” Joaquín waved his finger at me. “Pineda’s office, no?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you find your mami?”

  I shook my head.

  “What a shame.”

  Regina stared at me. She looked worried.

  “Entonces, you’re doing the shoe shine thing, ¿o qué?”

  “That’s right.” I glanced at his shoes, Nikes with no laces.

  “No. I don’t need one, but you know who does—Piolín.” H
e waved his friend forward and pushed him toward me. “Piolín, get a shine on those crusty boots of yours, cabrón.”

  Piolín was Pedro, the one who had been wearing the black leather jacket in Pineda’s office. He looked older than Joaquín. He was skinny and ugly. He wore a silk shirt that had the Mexican seal of the eagle eating the serpent, a big cowboy hat and a giant gold belt buckle embossed with the image of a Cuerno de Chivo. His boots were of multiple leathers, all exotic. I had never seen such fancy boots.

  “You got the clear stuff?” Pedro asked.

  I nodded and set my box down.

  He placed his boot on the platform at the top of the box. “You better not mess’m up, cabrón.”

  Joaquín laughed. “Ese Piolín. He paid fifteen hundred dollars for those stupid boots.” Then he addressed me. “You think they’re worth it?”

  I nodded and squatted in front of my box. I took out my creams, cloths and brushes, and got to work. I applied a thin coat of clear cream to the boot. Because of the different colors and leather, I couldn’t use any color, just the clear. I worked quickly. When I was done, I tapped at the bottom of the toes and started on the other.

  Someone made a joke about when they were in the plaza in Uruapan.

  Regina looked at me with an expression I couldn’t place: pity, sadness. She was difficult to read. Ximena too. I guess that’s the thing about girls: mystery.

  I worked the rag over and around the boot, giving it a nice clean shine. Then I brushed it lightly with my best brush. I tapped his foot and looked up.

  Pedro glanced at the boots and grinned. “Ay cabrón, they’re like new.”

  Everyone stopped talking. Joaquín examined the boots. “Not bad. Now let’s see how you do with these.” He set one of his Nikes on top of my box. “Make them sparkle.”

  I had never shined sneakers. I had no idea how to start. They were fake leather and plastic. I knew some of the other shoeshine boys in town used paint to work on them, but I didn’t have any paint.

  “Andale, güey. What are you waiting for?”

  I pulled out the clear and got to work. Everyone came around to watch. Ximena placed her hands around Joaquín’s shoulders. I was their entertainment. I had no clue if the shoe would shine or turn dull, because sometimes the grease can scratch the plastic, leaving it cloudy. If that happens the shoes are ruined for sure. You can never fix that. But I had to do something. I applied the clear, just a light coat. I worked quickly, dabbing grease, rubbing it onto the shoe, spreading it over the white parts of the sneaker. I focused on that. There was nothing else. Ximena was not there. It was just this Nike shoe and the boom of the music in the stereo of the truck blending with the conjunto at the other end of the plaza and all the laughter. I thought of the tickets to the wrestling. With every stroke of my hand and the smack of the rag, I thought of El Hijo del Santo. I kept saying it to myself: Santo, Santo. Santo. That was it for me. After I earned enough for the wrestling tickets, I was going to quit shining shoes. I wanted to get out, escape.

  I glanced at Ximena, at Regina. She turned away. Then one of the men said, “¡Ey! He’s checking out your girl’s legs, Joaquín.”

  Everything stopped. The men who’d been in the background moved closer. I kept working at a furious pace, leaning into the shoe, smacking the rag and running it back and forth along the back, sides and top of the sneaker. I was sweating. I dropped the rag and grabbed the brush without missing a beat. I was non-stop, my hands moving so fast I couldn’t even see them. Then someone said something about the girls Joaquín had in Uruapan, and everyone laughed.

  “You talk a lot of shit, carnal,” Piolín said.

  “It’s true. Right, Joaquín? Remember that short girl. She dyed her hair blond and was trying to show off, saying she was a gringa or something?” the man said.

  Joaquín laughed. “You remember the strangest things, pinche Barajas.”

  “And the strangest girls,” Piolín said. “Remember Ursula? She wanted Joaquín so bad, she said she would do anything.”

  Barajas whistled. “That’s how God makes them, no?”

  “And what about in Houston?” Joaquín said. “La Tania whatshername.”

  They laughed. I looked at Ximena. She was looking away from them like she didn’t care. Then Joaquín took her chin in his hand and turned her face so they were eye to eye, lips to lips. “But don’t worry your pretty little face, mi amor,” he said softly. “None of them compare to you. It’s only you and me now.” He turned to his friends. “You get that, pinches putos?”

  They all nodded and their laughter died away real fast. Ximena grinned. Regina stepped back and leaned against the truck. Somehow I had this feeling that she too wanted to escape, only she didn’t know how.

  “What are you looking at?” Joaquín barked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m done.”

  Joaquín inspected the Nikes. “Not bad. Are they real clean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Really clean?”

  “As clean as they’re going to get,” I said.

  “Clean enough to lick?”

  Regina stared at me, her eyes wide. Afraid. Ximena was the way she always was, sad, disinterested. Waiting.

  “I guess,” I said.

  “Then do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Lick them, cabrón.”

  I forced a smile.

  “¡Ándale, güey!”

  I put my brushes and grease away in the box.

  “You wanna get paid, no?” His friends surrounded me, all of them looking down. Behind them, Regina shook her head, her lips forming a silent no.

  I closed my box and stood.

  “What’s this?” Joaquín pushed his chest out, his hands resting on the sides of his waist.

  My skin was on fire. I leaned down to grab my box, but Joaquín pushed his foot down on it.

  “What do you say?”

  I straightened up, swallowed hard. Held it down. “About what?”

  “About cleaning my boots, cabrón.”

  I looked at Ximena, at Regina.

  “Don’t look at them. Look at me.” Joaquín poked me on the chest with his finger. “What do you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  A couple of his friends laughed. “Ya, chíngatelo, Joaquín.”

  “No.” He raised his hand. “What do you say?”

  “I don’t know.” I was a raging inferno. “What do you say?”

  “Me?” he grinned. “I’d say, how much?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much do I owe you, cabrón?”

  Everyone exploded in laughter.

  “Thirty for the two,” I said without missing a beat.

  He pulled out his wallet and held out a hundred-peso bill.

  “I don’t have change,” I said.

  “Keep it.”

  I stared at the folded bill pressed between his long fingers embellished with golden rings. Every single voice in my head told me not to take it. Then he dropped it. I watched it float to the ground like a kite in a windless day. It landed between his shoe and my box.

  He smiled. Then I glanced at Ximena, standing beside him, looking at me with her sad cat eyes. I hated her. I hated her more than anything in the world. No. I hated Joaquín more.

  One of the men smacked Pedro on the back. “Come on, turn that shit on the stereo off and call the musicians over. We need a good song.”

  “Yeah, el corrido de Joaquín Carrillo.”

  “You wish,” Pedro waved to the musicians at the end of the plaza.

  I glanced at the hundred pesos and back at the men. I was invisible again. Only Regina was looking at me. She nodded and mouthed the words: Take it.

  I picked up my box, grabbed the money and walked away. I kept walking all the way to my house, the hundred-peso bill crumpled in my fist. I kept seeing Ximena and Joaquín. I was burning out of control. I wanted to hurt. Kill.

  When I turned on my street, Chapopote came trotting toward
me, his sloppy tongue dangling from the side of his mouth, his tail wagging. I ran at him and kicked him in the side with all my rage. He yelped and ran off. I chased him, my shoeshine box rattling against my side. I couldn’t catch him. I unlocked the gate and set my shoeshine box outside the front door.

  The light in the living room was on. My parents! I ran inside thinking of the surprise in my mother’s face, her eyes, her smile. But it was only my abuela and Jesusa watching the stupid novela.

  9.

  On Sunday morning Abuela, Gaby and I went to church. At one time, maybe like two hundred years ago, the church must have been a grand old place. It had been built with huge volcanic rock and the wall behind the altar was like a pirate’s treasure, all gold and jewels. But the pews were scratched up and the ceiling and walls were stained from leaks and mildew.

  The church was crowded. All the places in the front were taken so we had to sit near the middle, which was great. With my parents, we always sat in the front. I hated that. Father Gregorio had a way of making eye contact with me whenever he talked about good and evil. I knew he was addressing everyone, but it always felt as though he were talking only to me. And when he paused to prepare the communion vessel, he stared at me as if the communion—and sometimes the entire ceremony—was being performed just to save my soul from the terrible sins I had supposedly committed. But the truth was that I wasn’t much of a sinner. I mean, I did curse but never as much as the other kids, especially Mosca. He had a real mouth. I just told a few innocent lies. I guess my worst sins had to do with Ximena.

  There were like twenty or thirty newcomers sitting up front. Well-dressed families—old people, grandparents, couples, kids. They were just regular people, but they looked different. Some of the men kept their sunglasses on. The women had their hair done real fancy. They wore a lot of gold. You could almost smell their money over the incense. I didn’t see Joaquín or his friends from Saturday night.

  Father Gregorio focused his mass on how we all need to strive for what he said is the inner person, which is Christ, or something like that. He spoke unusually slow and quoted Saint Paul over and over. But the main point was that carnal life is a passing stage of the inner life. Or something. It was a sad mass. His voice was deeper than usual. At one point he reminded us of Enrique Quintanilla and Rocío Morales. He said death was the ultimate sacrifice, and their souls were now with Him. Then he asked us to pray for them and their families. He said we were a community of believers, that we were all the children of God, and had to trust the Lord’s plan and not question his motives for the things that happen to us.